


The Test of Time

by fallingforcas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Day AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24612343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: Two People, Twenty Years. One Day.We see Mickey and Ian on the same day, each year - July 15th. Throughout the years, they grow apart as their lives take different directions and they meet other people. But as they grow apart Ian and Mickey find that they belong with eachother.One Day AU
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Mandy Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. July 15th, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> I have watched this film a million times, as-well as reading the novel a thousand times more, and I couldn't help myself. I love the idea of seeing them progress, not only in their relationship with eachother, but within themselves throughout the years. I have began this at Season 3 - and in some parts it is based off the film but I have altered it towards their storyline. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this, will be posting a chapter every couple of days!! 
> 
> Love you all and stay safe. Any comments are welcome !!

“There is that awful moment when you realize that you’re falling in love. That should be the most joyful moment, and actually it’s not. It’s always a moment that’s full of fear because you know, as night follows day, the joy is going to rapidly be followed by some pain or other. All the angst of a relationship.”

― Helen Mirren

**July 15 th, 2014**

It is an incredibly humid summer night in Chicago. The remaining glow of the slowly descending sun, a crisp circle balanced on the edge of the horizon, illuminating a quivering path across the fluttering strands of grass that formed the familiar baseball field. Two bodies pressed closely together, hands too frightened to touch, leaning against the tingling coolness of the wired metal fence behind them. Unspoken truths passed back and forth through an exchange of stolen glances; barely recognised but deeply felt, nonetheless.

The silence feels comfortable, surrounding them in an embrace of falsified safety. Their gasps begin to slow, bodies panting within the afterglow of vigorous sex. Mickey shoved against the fence, pants to his ankles, mouth agape in ecstasy; an image that continues to flash and engulf Ian’s memories. Mickey slices through the silence smoothly, shoving at Ian’s shoulder as he hands over his cigarette in a gesture of gratitude. Something remotely close to, _Hey, you just fucked me so hard my eyes watered. You can have my last smoke._ Ian takes it willingly, avoiding glancing into Mickey’s eyes with full force. He takes a drawn out drag, the smoke invading his lungs, and as he blows out, he knocks his head back in satisfaction. Mickey sighs awkwardly, instinctively following Ian’s actions and copying his position against the fence.

Ian’s desperately fighting off the urge to lean over and kiss Mickey; yearning the taste of the tip of his tongue, the sweet sensation of his soft, plump lips pressed against his own. From the moment he had seen Mickey, all greased up in dirt and bravado, he could not resist the clench in his chest. Not love, no. But what could _be_ love if pushed. Ian wanted to _know_ Mickey, delve deep into his insecurities, the monsters hiding under the bed, his _thoughts._ People would call him obsessed, or even plain stupid for believing Mickey had something _good_ below the bloodied fists and gritted teeth, but Ian _knew_ it was there. He was sure of it.

Whilst Ian fought off his own twitching thumbs, Mickey forced himself to direct his forever wandering gaze _anywhere_ but Ian. Ian tended to talk aimlessly about everything and anything after fucking; mostly about his ambitions, Westpoint, or the current events causing chaos in the Gallagher household. Mickey _hated_ it. He hated Ian’s stupid mouth, his stupid need to see the good in people, his stupid lame-ass stories that Mickey would miss if Ian suddenly disappeared. Mickey hated that Ian made him _think_ that.

As they both struggled to resist their raging feelings, they were both simultaneously aware yet oblivious to the fact that they were both gazing up at the beaming stars, dotted across the darkened sky as the sun finally disappeared. Star gazing; an activity that Mickey had sworn to never participate in. But here he was; sitting closely to Ian Gallagher, in a deafening silence, gazing at the goddamn stars.

Ian’s the first one to speak, clearing his throat as he did so, “Mickey, what are we?”

Mickey’s heart plummets into his stomach. Trust Ian to ask _that_ kind of question while his mind is going through a full-blown whirlwind of emotions. Fuck Ian and his stupid questions. Ashamed, Mickey ducks his head, his tongue clicking at the side of his cheek. With a shrug, he pulls off his trademark snarl, purposely depriving Ian of any inclination of his current feelings. “We fuck, smoke weed. That’s it.” After a cool breath, he conducts himself more calmly. “What kind of stupid fuckin’ question is that, anyway?”

In an orderly Ian Gallagher fashion, he chooses to intentionally avoid Mickey’s questions, a grin bearing wide across his flushed pale cheeks. A common expression that causes Mickey’s stomach to stir in a way that he cannot yet comprehend. Mickey risks glancing over towards Ian’s innocence, noticing his hopeful, doe-eyed look that screamed almost _pathetic._ Yet another thing Mickey was beginning to hate, or reluctantly chose to hate for his own sanity, because Ian stared at him like the sun shone out of his ass. Looking deep into his soul, Ian’s eyelashes fluttered in the slight breeze that cut through the small space around them, and Mickey pushed away the need to touch his face.

Mickey Milkovich did not _touch_. Not softly, anyway. Punches, kicks, and beat-downs, of course. Touching Ian Gallagher’s glowing cheeks was a definite _no._ Even if Mickey’s entire being was gagging for such connection.

Ian knocks his head back against the fence, humming with smugness, “ _So,_ friends that fuck?”

Mickey agrees, desperate for Ian to drop the subject, and repeats his words, “friends that fuck.”

In Ian’s overly optimistic mind, they were _friends._ They hung out, smoked pot, drank countless amounts of beer to cause that familiar buzz that Ian came to realise _relaxed_ Mickey in more ways than one. And they fucked. A lot. Now, of course, the universal notion of what being _friends_ with someone did not include fucking their brains out in the middle of the dugouts. But, as Ian had come to learn, it _was_ normal for them.

Even if neither of them could express their repressed feelings towards one another.

Three years of fucking in the Kash N’ Grab backrooms, random abandoned buildings scattered across Southside, and rarely on the baseball field, the threat of Mickey’s homicidal, homophobic father was a far greater priority than the possibility of an actual relationship. So, they never talked about it. Not really. Ian would trick Mickey into answering questions that had an underlying intention. Just like _this_ one. Mickey hardly ever noticed the way Ian would encourage him to blurt out his fucking feelings without even recognising his own words. Right now, Ian was confident that Mickey’s admission of being _friends_ meant more.

They both look back up to the ever-growing night sky, pupils twinkling under the shred of light that circled the outside of the field. Mickey itches to run, for Ian’s cell to blare out and signal him to yet another disastrous event occurring in the Gallagher household, or to embrace a certain bravery to just tell the kid to _fuck off_ because the intense fluttery feeling swirling his stomach, the tingly pulse at his fingertips, was becoming too hard to bare.

Unfortunately for Mickey, Ian was not going anywhere. In fact, he had inched himself just that little bit closer causing their shoulders to brush against eachother. Mickey’s teeth grind together, jaw tightening with tension, because whilst such a simple touch of skin on skin made his heart thump rapidly in excitement it was also the scariest _motherfucking_ feeling in the world.

Mickey’s ripped from his wandering thoughts once again as Ian begins to giggle beside him, (a sound that Mickey also _hated_ to love), tilting his head slightly, “Best friends.”

Ian’s an idiot. A total idiot. Mickey wants to agree because maybe they were best friends in their own weird way. Maybe Mickey did want to tell Ian about his shitty day and his equally shitty home problems and what he had for breakfast that morning. Just like _normal_ best friends did. It was not rocket science, it was clear as day on Ian’s smug little face that _maybe,_ just maybe, Ian wanted that too.

But Mickey could not openly express how felt, not like Gallagher could, and believed he might never have the balls to do so. He had a reputation, a brutish father to keep happy, and… well, Ian Gallagher deserved better. That is what Mickey told himself.

If Mickey could not admit to Ian how he truly felt, (how maybe some nights he did lie awake wondering what Ian was thinking, doing, or laughing about,) he could create a space for him to be his somewhat _best friend._

Attempting to hide is emerging smirk, because Ian was fucking ridiculous sometimes, Mickey shoves his shoulder into Ian’s. “Don’t fuckin’ push it, Gallagher.”


	2. July 15th, 2015

**July 15 th, 2015**

“The fuck you want?”

Mickey rubs at his eyes, stomach twisting in tight knots of annoyance, and sits up against his headboard. Before whatever sleep intruding _fuck_ answered his overly enthusiastic greeting, he glances down at his watch. 3.25am. Whoever thought ringing Mickey at that time of the night was a well-thought out move were seriously a few brain cells short.

“It’s Lip. Lip Galla—” A hurried voice echoes through the speaker.

Immediately interrupting, patience wearing thin with every lost minute of sleep passing Mickey by, Mickey grunts, “Fuck you want, Gallagher? If you are asking for another beatdown, I aint in the fuckin’ mood.”

Realistically, Mickey was _always_ prepared for a beatdown. Whether he would be receiving one, which was less than likely unless he had caught Terry in one of his infamous moods, or giving one. Lip Gallagher had effectively destroyed any chance of Mickey finding a little peace among his hectic, unpredictable existence, and he _would_ pay for that. Well, he would pay for it when Mickey’s eyes stopped drooping in exhaustion.

The question rattling in Mickey’s mind was _why_ Lip Gallagher was suddenly ringing him at the crack of fucking dawn. Apart from being Ian’s irritating elder brother and the kid that would sell English papers off, Lip Gallagher did _not_ have a reason for calling.

There is a hesitation in Lip’s answer, his words grouped together in a pathetic mumble, “It’s Ian.” A heavy sigh follows as Mickey inhales sharply, and he repeats, “Ian. It’s about Ian.”

In the last year, Mickey and Ian had become close. Too close for Mickey’s liking. (Not that Mickey hated Ian’s daily rambling, stupid jokes, or even his shy smile he hopelessly tried to hide.) With Terry still a beacon of pure doom, cascading over them like a dark cloud, and Mickey’s repressed denial over his sexuality, to the outside world they needed to keep the risk of being caught to a minimum. That is why Lip Gallagher’s pleading phone call was _not_ good news.

The thought of Ian being hurt, or even a little upset, turned Mickey’s stomach in knots; a wave of nausea washing over him. Despite the glorious fucks in baseball fields and remote areas within grungy alley’s, Mickey still could not fully confront his forever-growing feelings towards Ian. Ian had been out fucking other people, assuring Mickey he _always_ used a rubber, and Mickey had been quietly doing the same; that’s how Mickey wanted to keep it. A barrier between them, their repressed emotions of maybe fucking _love_ kept at bay, and Mickey’s total avoidance of Ian’s admiring gawks, and cute, sweet smiles of adoration, kept them both safe.

Ian had dreams, ambitions, and the opportunity to fulfil those dreams. Mickey was not going to stand in his way. No matter how hard the emotions pressed through his diaphragm. No matter how fast his heart sped once Ian was close. No matter how much he wanted to hold Ian, smell Ian, just be _with_ Ian.

Pulling himself from his own thoughts, Mickey attempts to hide his rising concern, “Gallagher? Fuck you need me for? He’s your kid brother aint he?”

The words pinch at the tip of his tongue, unable to fall off; _He in trouble?_

Lip releases a sigh, fully drained, and running a hand down his face with stress, (if Mickey could guess what Lip’s current expression was, it would be that gesture,) “Can you just act like a fuckin’ human being for one goddamn second, Mickey? It’s—” He stutters a little, clearly on the brink to a mental breakdown. “He’s not left his bed in days. We have tried everything. He has not talked since fuckin’ Monday and he’s just said your name.”

Mickey’s heart lands with a thud in the pit of his stomach. Ian had been acting strangely the last couple of weeks; all _look at this sunrise_ or venting about the third guy he had fucked that week. If Mickey had not been so riddled with jealously, he might have connected the occurrences together. Mickey had noticed it. Hell, he was with Gallagher nearly every single day; he had busted his ass everyday with his running, constant fucking jokes, and spontaneous actions that Mickey could not keep up with. Despite noticing Ian’s erratic behaviour, Mickey had just believed he was caffeinated to the max. On a good day, Ian would talk like a motor, fuck like a goddamn pornstar, and openly babble his feelings like a schoolgirl. Then suddenly Ian had vanished off the face of the Earth. Mickey assumed he had ran off with one of his side-twinks, or had finally achieved his elaborate plan to get away from the Southside, but he knew somewhere deep down that something was wrong.

Carrying on, unaware of Mickey’s isolating anxiety that rapidly increased, Lip fails to mask the worry that shook his voice, “I can’t believe I’m actually asking this shit from you. But I am gonna need you to come round here. Fuck knows why, but it seems you’re the only one that might get through to him.”

Mickey cannot resist his internalised denial, becoming entirely defensive in a method to diffuse his quickening fear over Ian. He lights a smoke, praying that the little blast of nicotine could sooth his bobbing knee and quivering lip. “Fuck you think I’m going to do, huh? I only work with the guy.”

Lip groans in frustration, “You want me to spell it out?”

“Fuck you implying?!” Mickey yells.

Fuck Ian. Fuck Ian and his stupid big mouth. Of course, Ian would go and blab to Lip; gossiping about their secret fucks and overly sensitive chats about their shitty lives. _Of course,_ Lip knew. Thanks to Ian and his consistent need to blurt his whole fucking life story to _anyone,_ Mickey now had one extra person to worry about.

Fortunately, Mickey’s rehearsed intimidation still worked a charm on Lip. Suddenly, he began stuttering through the speaker, gripping at lose threads to defend himself from the mighty wrath of Mickey Milkovich. “Nothing—I didn’t. I know you’re like weird fuckin’ best friends, or you know, I really don’t give a shit. I just need you to get your fuckin’ ass over here and get him out of the bed before he pulls a Monica, okay?”

Mickey does not know much about Monica, except for the shortened story that Ian had told him once. It involved a lot of blood, thanksgiving, and Monica sprawled across the kitchen floor. Mickey did not ask for many details, too focused on how the awful tale caused Ian’s face to screw up in grief. Mickey had pushed back his desperate urge to smoothen out the crinkled lines formed across his freckled forehead.

When Mickey fails to answer, all caught up in his vison of his rough fingertips tracing shapes across the ridges of Ian’s skin, Lip pleads again. “Listen. I’m asking you this as a fuckin’ favour. If you give even the littlest of shits for Ian then help us out, man.”

Mickey cannot decide; a mixture of wanting to save Ian from whatever hell he had fallen into and in great fear of the consequences of being caught. Before Mickey can even weigh up his options, Lip is already hanging up, his deafening words lingering after it cuts. “You know where we live.”

It takes a good thirty minutes, a couple of chain-smoked cigarettes, and a dose of liquid courage from the half empty bottle of Jack lying by his bed, for Mickey to gather up the valour to get dressed and leave the Milkovich house. Mickey convinced himself he had only left for his _own_ sake, pretending that the overwhelming worry that Lip might out him resided above his concern for Ian’s wellbeing. He continues to shake off the suffocating thoughts of Ian rattling around his mind, bringing yet another cigarette to his lips in a method of evoking calmness.

Of course, Lip was right. Mickey _did_ know where the Gallagher house was. Very well, in fact. A couple of weeks prior Ian had persuaded him to come over, bribed with promises of a free house and free booze, and he had been pounded in the mattress that _now_ apparently Ian would not get up from.

As he reaches the Gallagher house, he comes to a sudden halt at the porch steps. Debating whether this was an awful idea, Mickey stubs out his smoke against the sidewalk, biting his lip furiously as he did so. The house is dark, almost vacant at first glance, except for a dim ray of light coming from the top window. Mentally forcing himself to approach the front door, Mickey’s heart continued to hammer against his chest. In fairness, Mickey had become accustom to the crushing nervous energy that engulfed him when being in a proximity to Ian.

After a couple of loud knocks against the door, Lip answers looking all ruffled with exhaustion and strain, his curly hair matted against his skull. He looks a little shocked, nodding his head with affirmation, “Thanks for coming.”

“Whatever.” Mickey deadpans, roughly shoving past Lip to enter the living area. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs.” Lip utters, hands falling at his hips as if he were waiting for Mickey to react.

Mickey tongues the side of his cheek for a couple of seconds, examining the situation, calculating his next move. He could distinctly hear some mumbling whispers from the top of the stairs. Then it dawned on him that none of the other Gallagher’s, apart from Lip because of Ian’s incapability to keep his mouth shut, _knew_ of his and Ian’s relationship – or a friendship as they now called it. Walking up those stairs was a risk, a _huge_ risk, but looking into Lip’s sorrowful eyes, all watery and doing that thing that Ian did that made Mickey want to burn the whole goddamn world to the ground, Mickey felt compelled to take the risk.

Mickey climbs the stairs with Lip closely behind him. As he reaches the room, that he knew to be the one that Ian shared with his brothers, his presence causes an unusual stir. Fiona gives him a once over, face filled with wild confusion. Debbie and Carl are pressed close together, whispering too loudly, _why the fuck is he here?_ The only Gallagher Mickey cannot feel staring him down with patronising and worried gazes was the little one. He vaguely remembered Ian calling him Liam. Mickey could only guess the kid was in bed, being all little and that. Mickey liked Liam now. He was the only Gallagher that was not currently looking at him like he had pissed in their Cheerio’s.

Lip shoves at his back, ushering him forward towards the slightly ajar door. Mickey swallows harshly, wishing that he still had his bottle of Jack to keep him company. He was not exactly excited to see what lay behind that door. By the look on the rest of their faces, it was not going to good. Openly the door slowly, he allows his eyes to adjust to the dim lit room before him. He is unsure how to assess the situation, breath hitching at the sight of the slumped figure, curled within itself, facing the wall by the window. It is Ian. _Jesus Christ,_ it is fucking Ian. The bed covers were raised high, only the pale skin of Ian’s neck visible.

Mickey glances back to Lip, visibly shaken by the quiet image of Ian silent and fragile beneath the sheets. Lip nods in support. Mickey clears his throat, taking another look towards Ian’s much smaller frame. He had _no_ clue what this was but having the Gallagher’s burning holes into the back of his skull was not at all helping the situation.

Swiftly turning on his heel, he grunts, “You going to give a guy some fuckin’ space?” They all take a step backwards as Mickey gestures a shooing motion, “Probably aint getting up ‘cause he’s sick of seeing your sad asses hovering by the door like flies on fuckin’ shit.”

They shut the door behind Mickey, their hurried voices of concern rumbling from behind the wooden frame. Suddenly Mickey has the urge to bolt out of the door, feeling extremely claustrophobic in the small, confines of Ian’s small bedroom. Usually, Mickey enjoyed being in a space with just Ian, no distractions or threats knocking on the door, but right now, with Ian unbeknownst to his appearance and so _fucking silent,_ Mickey had to stop his lungs from collapsing.

He steps nervously towards the bed, crouching by the side of it. He pokes the back of Ian’s neck, teeth sinking into the skin of his teeth. “Hey, Gallagher. Fuck you doing?”

Ian does not answer; he just flinches at the unexpected poke against his neck.

Mickey tries again, allowing his words to hide the sinking sensation in his chest. He stands from his crouched position, looking down at Ian’s shaken frame. “So, what? Your fucktard brother calls me in the middle of the goddamn night for you to just stare at the fuckin’ wall like some creep?”

Mickey did not intend to be so brash, but it was the only method he knew. Ian had never been intimidated by Mickey’s aggressive nature, anyway.

Mickey steps back abruptly, watching as Ian slowly turned around onto his right side. Mickey attempted to keep his emotions in check, eyes watering that quickly caused his vision to go blurry. Ian looked thin, paler than usual, and vacant behind the eyes; Red rimmed skin surrounding the green balls of light. Ian looked _ill,_ lost, and if Mickey could speak through his strangled internal fret, he would say Ian looked like a little child. All bundled up in his covers, puffed up cheeks, and shivering uncontrollably.

Something was going on with Ian, something _bad,_ and Mickey could not resist in finding out what that something was. He regains his crouched position by the bed, pushing back the urge to push the hair out of Ian’s eyes, “Ian, what’s going on, man?”

Ian opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. Mickey’s hopeful; hopeful that Ian will finally speak because, _fuck,_ if he was not already missing Ian’s mindless ranting.

Ian lets out a shaky breath, voice shattering with each strained word, “I don’t know, Mick. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

A single tear escapes Ian’s left eye, trickling over the bridge of his nose and Mickey just stands there, still, feet stuck against the carpet, unable to find the right words, a thread of three words that he _knew_ would slice through Ian’s trance like-state. Ian stares at him with those hallow eyes, a shell of the boy that radiated such confidence and naivety back when he had poked Mickey’s back with a goddamn tire iron. It sucks. It really fucking _sucked._ Because Ian wanted to explain, he wanted to slap that pitiful, broken expression from Mickey’s face, but it hurt to breathe never mind opening his mouth to pull together a string of words that barely made sense.

When someone cries _so_ hard that it hurts their throat it is usually out of frustration or with knowledge that no matter what you cannot attempt to change the situation. Ian wanted to cry, he wanted to fall into a fit of uncontrollable sobs just to get it out, to relieve some of the pressure from the inside – to Ian, that was _true_ pain. To know in your heart that no matter how hard you want to, or desperately try to, you cannot. That pain, that pain that caused Mickey’s face and heart to shatter into pieces, stays in place. Then, maybe if you’re lucky enough, one small tear, that tiny, salty droplet of moisture becomes a means of escape. Although it is just a small tear, a miniature fragment of Ian’s muffled emotions, it was the heaviest thing in the world. And, it does not do a goddamn thing to fix anything.

In that moment, Mickey realised that his feelings were not fake, not a trick of his brutish mind, but _real._ So goddamn fucking _real._ To the point where it made his whole body vibrate with the erratic thud of his heart. He glanced over to the ghost of the man he told himself not to fall for, his hallow eyes, clenched jaw, and a curled shadow below the blanket, and he felt nothing but _love._ Was it _love, love?_ The type Mandy watched consistently on the television set. The type Ian longed for. The type Mickey had never understood. Maybe? Fuck if he knew. The point was, despite Ian being on the verge of breaking, his brittle bones quaking below the surface, Mickey wanted to wipe that tear away, holding him until the shaking stopped, and whisper sweet nothings into his ear as he fell back asleep.

But, as usual, Mickey was shit at expressing what he felt on the inside. His feelings portrayed through his physical actions. He only hoped that Ian could see through that overwhelming fear that crippled him most days.

They continued to stare at eachother from across the room, no words exchanged but with the hope that one day, before it is too late, that one of them would have the guts to say something. Something they both knew and felt.

Mickey cuts through the silence, gearing himself up a little with a roll of his shoulders, “How bad is it?”

He braces himself for the answer, or the unknown, as he lifted his hand to palm Ian’s pale, wet cheeks; Rough skin against soft skin.

Ian sniffs a little, before breaking out with that shattered, little whisper, “Very bad.”

Mickey tries to swallow the lump in his throat; debating what to do next. Ian’s looking at him as if he’s asking for all the answers, as if Mickey was the _only_ person to give him those answers. Mickey cannot take it; he cannot just stand there and do _nothing_ when Ian was so expecting of him. So, in a slow fashion he strips from his oversized jacket, and pushes gently at Ian’s shoulder.

“Scoot.” He whispers, pushing aside the dread settling in his stomach.

Ian pauses for a second, trying to understand Mickey’s out-of-character actions. He nods slowly, barely moving his head, and shuffles back against the bed towards the wall. Still curled within his blanket, his eyes grow wide as Mickey settles against the mattress beside him. Mickey chooses to ignore that look; simultaneously in fear of Ian _knowing_ what he was feeling and breaking Ian with the simplest touch.

They lay there, both on their sides, both glancing towards each other’s eyes, memorising each intricate detail within the iris. Mickey reassigns his palm to its spot against Ian’s cheek, a touch so soft that Ian could barely register it. Mickey Milkovich did _not_ touch like this; he struggled even comprehend a brush of Ian’s shoulder against his own. But Ian _needed_ this. Afterall, they were _weird_ best-friends, (As Lip had so forcefully told him before), and that is what best-friends do, _right?_

Ian’s eyes flutter closed; his face finally relaxing. He whispers, “Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey just stares. Just breathes Ian in like he is just breached the top of the water and is gasping for air. He brushes his thumb across Ian’s piercing cheekbone, and whispers back, “Anytime, Gallagher.”

Mickey’s not entirely sure when it happened or _how_ it happened. Or when it even started. It had always been just fucking. That was it. An unofficial, binding contract between the two of them. They were friends, sure, best-friends at a push, (a term of endearment Mickey recoiled but used to make Ian smile that idiotic grin), but that was it. Wasn’t it? For all Mickey knew, right there and now as his thumb brushed against Ian’s soft skin, he knew he was falling hard, and he could only pray that Ian felt that way too.

Because _fuck_ this shit was scary.

***

Mickey emerges from the bedroom forty minutes later. His hair is all dishevelled from lying against Ian’s single pillow, and he’s pinching his nose with fatigued frustration. As soon as the door clicks shut, the Gallagher’s surround him like hawks. He jumps a little, surprised at how fast they all resumed their previous positions.

“He’s asleep.” Mickey announces, avoiding their questioning glares.

“Fuck.” Lip mutters below his breath before running his hands through his hair. Beholding a face of a man who had barely an inch of patience left. “We gotta get him to a hospital, Fi.”

“Hospital?” Mickey repeats Lip’s word but this time with some malice. He is unsure why he feels the need to be so vocal about his feelings towards Lip’s implied words, but he is doing it anyway. “Like a fuckin’ psych ward? No way. No _fucking_ way.”

Fiona pushes forward, bridging herself between Mickey and Lip. She is as confused as Mickey with his passionate outburst. “Why do you even care, Mickey? If he owes you cash this is really not the fuckin’ time to be collecting a debt. I don’t give a shit who you are, or who your family are—”

Mickey immediately interrupts, placing one hand up in surrender. “I’m his friend, aright?”

“Friend?” Fiona repeats, suspicious, testing the word on her tongue.

Mickey sneaks a glance over to Lip; for once, pleading with his eyes for him to support him on this one and to remove his teeth-bearing Pitbull of a sister from ripping his head off. Lip gives him a nod before placing a hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “Fi, they’re friends, okay. If Ian wanted him here, he can be here.”

Despite their differences, and their mutual hatred for one another, Mickey could respect Lip in this instance. Fiona uses the back of her hand to rub at her eyes, before sighing, “Okay, you’re his friend or whatever. We are his _family._ We get to decide what happens to him. So, he is going to the fuckin’ hospital.”

Mickey doesn’t even know why he’s continuing to argue against the fact, because they _were_ his family. They could make decisions that impacted Ian’s life. So, what if they did; Mickey was never one to back down from having his say. “I’ll stay, okay? I will look after him. We can take care of him. You, me. Us. We are his fuckin’ _family._ ”

Fiona waves her hands around her wildly, frustrated. “It’s not that simple, Mickey.” The others listen back intently as Fiona lists off reasons that they already knew, first-hand. “It could be Bipolar. Like our mother.”

Mickey frowns, almost yelling, “Bi-fuckin’ what?”

He cannot recognise her words; Bipolar? Like a fuckin’ disease. Fiona was insinuating that Ian – perfect, god-like, sweet to the core Ian Gallagher – was sick.

Lip stand next to Fiona, somehow reassuring Mickey, “It’s manic depression.”

“Manic fuckin’—depression?” Mickey feels himself falling apart, confused at them both for speaking such fucking _shit,_ “who _isn’t_ depressed living in this fuckin’ shithole.”

Lip steps in again, educating Mickey on a subject he _really_ did not want to hear about. “It’s not that kind of depressed, Mickey—”

“It’s high highs, and really fuckin’ low lows.” Fiona buts in, waving her hands around frantically as she listed off things that stabbed Mickey straight in the gut. “It’s mood swings. It is almost impossible to fuckin’ handle.” She sighs shakily, eyes watering, “he could be suicidal, Mickey. I’m not risking it.”

Suicidal? Had Mickey heard, that right? Ian was _suicidal?_ How could that happen when he had been a literal beacon of fuckin’ sunshine his whole entire existence.

Fiona and Lip continued to desperately convince Mickey that their way was the right way; completely unsure why they were in the first place – this was Mickey Milkovich, a ball of rage and aggression, the Southside’s very own murderous brute, with a homophobic prick of a father, and a family of notorious thugs popping in and out of jail. Why should _she_ convince Mickey? If it weren’t for Lip’s constant assurance that Mickey was there for the _right_ reasons he would have been kicked to the curb by now.

Mickey thumbs his top lip, bobbing on the spot as he went over their declarations. Maybe they were right – maybe, Ian _did_ need help. In Mickey’s experience the help was usually family, _just_ family, and not some nameless guys in white fuckin’ coats doing tests and plying you with countless drugs. However, Mickey would _never_ beable to convince Fiona to not send Ian there. Yes, he might even love the ginger-haired fuck, but that meant nothing when Fiona had basically raised the kid. So, he nods, accepting their words.

“Okay.” He breathes, still unsteady and basked with worry. “We’ll get him to a hospital. Once he is out of bed, we’ll make him go.”

All the Gallagher’s nod in unison. They all look at eachother with that look of _fuck, what do we do now?_ And Mickey’s eyes cannot stop glancing back and forth from the bedroom door; feeling stupid for letting not just one, but all the Gallagher’s, suck him into their chaotic bullshit. But it is _Ian._ For fuck sakes, it had to be Ian that got some stupid fuckin’ illness. 

It would be easier for Mickey to run; to enjoy the sense of security being alone with his hidden sexuality out of reach from his father’s senses. But Mickey had never been a man to back down from a challenge. Terry scared him, but losing Ian scared him more.

***

That night, as he laid against the blankets he had placed onto the floor beside Ian’s bed, he lifts his phone towards his face. He dims the light, peeping over towards Ian’s form to see if he was still within a blissful sleep. He unlocks it, pulling up Google to find out some information on this Bipolar shit that they all believed Ian had. It would be good to be informed because, maybe then, he would understand better.

Mickey reads, and reads, and continues to read until the sun starts peeping through the horizon. He learns the basics, the _what to look for,_ the symptoms, the _next fucking steps to recovery,_ and the most typical medicine combinations used to treat it. He memorizes the latter. To the last word. He hoped he would never have to bring that from within his memory bank – but it did not harm anyone to know it.


	3. July 15th, 2016

**_July 15 th, 2016_ **

“Mickey, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking a fuckin’ break. Fuck you think I’m doing?”

Mickey lights up his smoke, dropping his end of the bed as Ian struggled to hold the grip at the headboard. Ian groans loudly in irritation, forcing himself not to drop his side. He glares towards Mickey as he puffs out a smoke cloud with a smirk tainting his lips, “Come _on,_ Mickey. Stop fucking around and _lift._ ”

Ian yanks the headboard higher in a display to encourage Mickey to do as he was told, eyebrows raised. Mickey rolls his eyes, already tired of Ian’s constant moaning throughout this whole ordeal, and stubs out his cigarette. “Keep your hair on, Gallagher. Not my fault you chose the heaviest fuckin’ bed in Chicago.”

Mickey bends down, steadying himself as his hands wrapped themselves around the wooden panels at the tale-end. Ian resists glancing towards Mickey’s now exposed chest, his shirt falling down a little revealing the pale, porcelain skin that Ian itched to touch.

Shaking the thoughts away, Ian begins to move backwards; adequately happy with Mickey’s hold on the, _okay it was fucking heavy,_ bed. “Don’t be dramatic, Mick. You offered.”

“Nah, you begged.” Mickey grins entertained at the speed in which he could get a rise out of Ian. His grip falters a little as they approached the door to the apartment block. “Fuck,” he mutters, hands beginning to burn against the weight. He fails at making a legitimate excuse to escape such manual labour, “Ian, man. I’ve gotta go on a run with my dad,” he eyes his watch, “in _twenty fucking minutes.”_

Ian does not fall for his botched attempt at lying, rolling his eyes as he shoved to bed towards Mickey’s chest, “More reason to fuckin’ _lift_ then.”

Mickey’s charm or forceful efforts of intimidation had never phased Ian; he had never once flinched at Mickey’s coiled fists, but merely headed towards them like some fearless warrior with zero self-preservation. Mickey did not understand where such bravery came from; Ian had been a floppy-haired, full face of freckles, little puppy dog who _still_ did not fear Mickey even after numerous threats to dismantle his tongue from his mouth. Now, well _now,_ Ian was like a statue made of fucking marble; chiselled abs, bulging biceps, and he had grown in more places than one. Mickey had struggled all summer to retract his gaze from Ian’s spontaneous transformation; despite Ian’s farewell to Westpoint because of his _stupid fucking knee,_ Ian’s training had not gone to waste; not on Mickey anyway. Everytime Ian stepped into room he had eyes on him, gawking at his toned frame and sweet, charismatic nature to match. Mickey’s heart swelled and his dick twitched; Ian Gallagher was a force of fucking nature these days and Mickey had tucked his lingering erection in the waistband of his jeans too many times to count.

It had been a whole year since Ian’s first major low episode. Mickey had spent the better part of that year sleeping on Ian’s floor, back aching for weeks as he laid like a bodyguard at Ian’s protection, to the point where he had been absorbed into the Gallagher lifestyle. He would have breakfast with them, he’d discuss goddamn bills with them, he had even taken Liam to his preppy-ass school without anyone asking. Ian had finally got out of bed; and to his dismay he had allowed Mickey, Fiona and Lip to drag him to the hospital. As expected, he had been diagnosed with Bipolar; the same stupid disease Monica had. Ian had joked with Lip about inheriting their deadbeat parents genes once before, he had never realised that it would become a deafening reality that brought a suffocating weight upon his shoulders. At first, he had refused to take the pills, ran off in rage to Boystown before sending himself back to hospital with severe blood poisoning. Mickey had been furious, his emotions erupting into a messy pool of idiocy, and brought Ian, _his Ian,_ back to the foreground of reality. He had begged, pleaded, that Ian would take the stupid damn pills for not only his sake, his best-fucking-friend, but for his _family._ After a strained, painful few months Ian had equipped the correct dosage and started to become his annoyingly, over-protective, and chatter mouth self. Mickey, through his own secret admission, was _happy._

They hung out, explored new places around Southside, playfully hitting eachother whenever in reach, and they began to feel comfortable together. Eating together, sometimes Ian forcing Mickey to sleep side-by-side with him because _it is not awkward, Mick. You have had my dick in your ass, this is not as gay as that._ Mickey wanted to agree but it did feel fucking gay at the time. They had spent almost everyday together; most people perceiving them as two young guys having each other’s backs, best-friends finding eachother within a shitty society. Mickey liked it that way; because no one asked questions – questions that would lead to Terry finding out that Mickey was a bitch for Ian’s dick thrusting into his ass.

Throughout Ian’s struggle with his own mind, Mickey had considered blurting out the truth; that he might feel something for Gallagher that was not just lust. It was huge possibility at the time because they were _so fucking close._ But Mickey could not do it. He could not risk the wrath of his father on not only himself but on Ian. Ian had started to settle with his medication, his hallow eyes filling up, and his pale skin flourishing with life. Mickey decided that it was the right decision to hold back, to keep harbouring his feelings deep inside, because he did not want to light a match to Ian’s building progress. Ian needed better, he _deserved_ better, and Mickey was not ready to be fully selfish this time.

That is when Ian had announced at the weekly Gallagher meal that he had bought an apartment. (because, yes, Mickey had been attending those cheesy- ass, let us talk about our days and feelings and shit, Gallagher dinners.) They were all ecstatic, even Mickey because maybe then they could fuck in peace without hiding from rushing Gallagher’s, until Ian opened his mouth once more, the words _In the Northside_ spilling nervously from his lips.

Mickey had sunk his head in hands, the Gallagher’s all gasping around him, but he tried to not envy Ian and his ability to be so spontaneous, to finally get _out._ Well, not completely _out,_ but away from Southside’s shitty luxuries. Mickey _had_ to pretend to be somewhat happy for him, sending false encouraging smiles, because Ian deserved more than scrounging for money to pay for scraps and being stuck in the only place that happened to tear him down.

That’s how they ended up helplessly carrying a heavy-as-fuck bed up the endless steps that led to Ian’s new apartment. The building itself was not much to look at; walls crumbling, chipped paint, and obnoxiously loud neighbours. Which is why Mickey could not understand Ian’s beaming excitement at his first glance at the dump; he was all giddy and jittery as if he had suddenly discovered the Holy Grail. It wasn’t much, not the typical Northside penthouse palaces that they could only dream of, but it was beginning of Ian’s journey of getting his life together. A pinpoint on the map that was his life; the anxious build up at the beginning of a race and all Ian needed to wait for was the echo of the gun.

“Tilt it to the left.” Ian instructs, his back squished between the wall and the crushing frame of the bed.

Mickey grits his teeth, “It _is_ to the fuckin’ left.”

“A little bit more.”

“More? You think I’m fuckin’ superman? There is no fuckin’ room for _more.”_

Ian huffs, halting his slow pace up the steps. Mickey smashes into his end, startled by Ian’s abrupt stop of movement. “The fuck, Gallagher?”

Still holding a tight grip against the headboard, Ian raises his brow in an orderly fashion to which Mickey knew too well; it was an expression that meant Ian was preparing to give Mickey a lecture of some sort. “Mickey, you’ve got to work with me here. If you don’t, we are going to end up trapped on this weird smelling fuckin’ stairwell.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, “So, for the love of God, _please_ just tilt it to the goddamn left.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mickey curses below his breath, struggling to regain full grip against the wood. Ian gives him the _do as I fucking say look_ and Mickey reluctantly complies. This darn bed would be the death of him. He pushes his end up a little higher, gaining a little access to tilt it to the left as Ian eased it up the stairs. “If you didn’t lift it so fuckin’ high, I wouldn’t be struggling.”

Ian giggles, his frustrated attitude washing from him completely. “Oh, Mick. My long arms too much for your little ones?”

“Oh, fuck the fuck off.” Mickey barks back, angrily shoving at the bed hopeful that it would cause Ian to stumble against his footing. He changes the subject, repressing his urge to obsess over the angelic sound of Ian’s cackle, and climbs the steps with more ease. “Bet this bed could tell some horror stories.”

Ian reaches the last step, shaking his head with his lips pressed into a shy smile. “Yeah, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Mickey lifts his end above his face, hiding the incoming blush against his cheeks. “Fuck you, Firecrotch. No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Ian tests him, smug look taking over his flushed cheeks. He walks backwards into his open apartment door, dragging Mickey and the bed with him. “So, you have _no_ recollection of me giving you an A-class hummer this morning? In this bed.”

Mickey _did_ have a recollection of that event. It was engraved in his memory; Ian pulling Mickey up from his slumber, tossing him against the bed with force, and then slipping below Mickey’s boxers with his hungry tongue and animalistic eyes. It was an A-Class blowjob; hell, it almost made Mickey’s eyes water because the _things_ Ian could do with that tongue. It should be illegal.

“Eh,” Mickey shrugs his shoulders, “I’d give it a six out of ten, at the most.”

Ian’s eyes grow hungry, reliving the memory as Mickey did, and he is smug, “Liar.”

“Bitch.” Mickey retaliates.

They reach what Mickey assumes will be Ian’s bedroom, dropping the bed with a thud against the hard-wood flooring. They both gasp in relief; Ian tilting his head up at the ceiling as Mickey rests his hands against his knees trying to grasp his breath back. He examines the space, his eyes catching onto the gathering dust in the corners, the rotting floorboards, and the incredibly ugly wallpaper slapped against the walls.

“Jesus Christ, man.” Mickey straightens up, kicking at a random piece of wood, “place looks like it’s been hit by a nuclear fuckin’ bomb.”

It was a shithole, really. Ian was paying too much for a two-bed apartment, a small kitchen and square foot space for a living room, that was clearly falling apart at the seams. Mickey scowls at the weird odour that enclosed the apartment; a mixture of stale cigarettes, a touch of blue cheese, and cats. It smelt like stray-fucking-cats. God, he pitied Ian.

Ian, however, was in some weird euphoric state. He is walking around the apartment, smile gleaming on his face, and his hands floating at his sides like feathers. Mickey watched, confused and somewhat impressed that Ian could _always_ turn something so shit into a big adventure. He would look at something wilted, like a decaying flower, and still see some good in it. Maybe, just maybe, that is how he had looked at Mickey.

Ian twirls around, embracing his new sense of freedom, “Don’t be so _judgey_ , Mickey. I mean,” He ushers them to the bathroom, turning on a tap and running his fingers below the water. “Least I have hot water?”

Mickey scoffs, before pointing towards the toilet seat, “And an STD by the looks of that fuckin’ grotty piece of shit.” Because, seriously, even if the Milkovich’s were known for their unwashed skin, shaggy attire, and aggressive attitudes, they _knew_ what a clean toilet looked like.

Ian shoves at his chest teasingly, attempting to hide his amused smile. He pushes Mickey out of the bathroom, leading him back to the bedroom. “I just—I mean, anything is better than Southside, right? Anything is better than being crammed in that tiny Gallagher house with them all treating me like I’m a goddamn ticking time bomb.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees quietly.

Because Ian was _right._ Anything was better than living with your gawking siblings who were anxiously waiting for you to make your next crazy move. Anything was better than reminding yourself of your spiralling downfall and manic acts that Ian refused to remember. Despite the place being an utter and total shamble, Ian was further away from the threat of Mickey’s murderous father, and the possibility of falling into the cracks of alcoholism or criminality, and that is all Mickey needed. Ian safe.

“Hey, Mick?” Ian spoke up, voice a little on edge.

“Hm?” Mickey replies, picking at the lose thread at the bottom of his shirt.

“I miss you.”

“ _Miss me?”_ Mickey glares, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. “Fuck you talking about? I’m right here.”

Ian shrugs, the blood draining from his face as his palms his bicep as if he were cowering away, “I don’t know. I just – I just don’t want us to drift apart, you know? Me moving here, away from _everyone,_ it’s going to be really fuckin’ tough. You’ve been like this massive goddamn rock, stopping me from doing stupid shit, tracking my pills, fuckin’ dragging me out of bed when I don’t feel like getting up. I just don’t want to lose that.”

By the end of Ian’s heartfelt speech his eyes are all glassy and Mickey bites down on his lip, unsure how to respond to Ian’s sudden openness. He just wants to swipe that stupid, fretted expression off Ian’s face.

He shoves at Ian’s shoulder, “Why you gotta _always_ make shit so fuckin’ gay, man?”

It’s not that Mickey hadn’t ran over the same thoughts in his own mind; bracing himself to be constantly worrying about what Ian was doing, or just plain _missing_ the kid. Sure, they fucked occasionally; sucked eachothers dicks here, there and everywhere. But they had never really committed themselves to one another; not vocally, anyway. Mickey wished that things were different; that he could be so honest, open and _free_ like Ian, and could just give Ian what he wanted. Nevertheless, Mickey had always known that life did not work that way. Some fantasies, or made up scenarios, just remain a _fantasy._

You hear it in those cringey romantic comedies, or in those hefty teenage novels that make Mickey want to claw his goddamn eyes out, that you cannot just be _friends_ with someone you love. After a breakup, a hideous broken heart, you cannot just be _friends._ You can try, for sure, and sense that you are getting somewhere. But in the end, you are always left wanting _more._

After weighing up the pro’s and con’s, Mickey is stuck just being Ian’s friend. There’s little incentives on the side-lines, a cheeky fuck here and there, but Mickey intended to stay where he was, close but not too close, close enough to protect Ian without bringing hell with him. So, that’s what they were now; friends – _best-friends._

Ian rolls his eyes, brushing off Mickey’s comment with a small smile. “You know what I mean, Mick.”

Mickey shifts awkwardly, doing his best to reassure Ian against his turmoiled mind, “You’re going to be fine, Ian.”

Ian’s eyes widen at the lack of the typical nickname that would fall from Mickey’s mouth, a little dazed at the rare choice of endearment. He tries not to notice it, his hand dropping from his bicep. He begins to wander around the room, pacing, “What if I’m not though? What if my med’s mess up again? What if I cannot fuckin’—”

Mickey rushes in before Ian starts to tear his hair out, his face softening with comfort. Standing closer to Ian, he grips his forearm to stop his hurried movements. “Jesus, calm down.” Ian glances down at him, anxiousness fleeing with great speed at Mickey’s calming touch. Mickey smiles softly, squeezing his fingers into Ian’s skin, “You’re going to be _fine._ You always are. Kicking Bipolar’ s ass every single fuckin’ day, aren’t ya?”

Ian rolls his eyes, edging himself closer with a huff. “I guess.”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes out, defying his urge to touch Ian to calm his insecurities, “so, shut the fuck up.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Exchanged uneasy glances of repressed emotion, hands twitching at their sides, teeth sinking into lips, with a mutual understanding of what those senseless words _really_ entailed.

Mickey senses the tense atmosphere, causing his whole sensibility to stir in an unexpected flurry, and abruptly announces, “I’ve gotta run. You good?”

Ian nods, burying deep his need for Mickey to stay. “I’m good.”

“Good.” Mickey allows the word to repeat for the third time; feet sticking to the grotty apartment floor as he pushed himself to leave. “Catch you in a couple of weeks?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, shrinking within himself at the realisation that when Mickey exited the apartment he would be entirely on his own. On his own to take on the goddamn world. It was a daunting thought; being without Mickey, his family, any reassurance to back him up when things went haywire.

Mickey rushes off like he always did; away from his responsibilities, his feelings for Ian, his fear for what could come next. Ian lets him, embracing the empty space his best-friend had left as he pushed through his apartment door. In a matter of minuscule seconds, Ian already missed him. His charming timid eyes in contrast to his thuggish exterior.

So, he stands there; hands pressed against his sides, eyes roaming around the room and taking it all in. For the first time in his life, he was alone. Alone in a small, dirty apartment. But Mickey was right; if you could overcome the threat of an everlasting disease, he could take on the fucking North-side. Alone.


End file.
